Death comes in darkness from below,
with claws and teeth,
snuffling and sneaking,
slipping under the wire,
snapping, chasing, frenzied,
as feathers fly
and hearts stop,
biting and tearing,
maddened, unstoppable,
until red fur
is slick with blood.
Death comes in daylight from above,
plummeting in a rush of air,
wings back,
out-pacing gravity,
black talons brush through feathers,
pierce flesh,
and the hot blood flows –
evisceration is swift,
almost tidy.
Death comes in through the gate,
calling chook-chook-chook,
a handful of seed in one hand,
a hatchet in the other.
And all rush to meet her.
So this is a follow-on from my last two poems – Hawk and A henhouse full of roosters. It’s not safe being a chicken in the bush… and yes, I do have a hatchet, but it’s reserved for roosters. And the pig has eaten two, but I’m sure it was an accident because she sat on them first, so she’s not included here.
anotherKate 
Wow, Kate! You kept me to the end! But then, we’ve had so much slow death from Covid-19 over the last year or so that maybe a quick death by a predator isn’t so bad after all. But isn’t Covid a predator too? Yes, Nature is ruthless in survival.
Thanks Al
Interesting question – I think I would rather be eaten by a predator, ideally quickly and unexpectedly.
The pig ate two.
Could be the name of a book.
Book could be about politicians, or farm animals.
A modern Animal Farm perhaps 😀 Or a Disney movie of it, complete with song and dance numbers for “all animals are equal, but some are more equal than others”.